


Not Actually a Girl's Name

by agirlsname



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mary is his assassin, Moriarty is Alive, The Tarmac Scene (Sherlock), gone differently
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-22 16:02:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9615242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlsname/pseuds/agirlsname
Summary: Sherlock is not a girl's name. What did he intend to say?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the very first of my Johnlock fics! I wrote this in the dark times of sorrow immediately after season 4 aired, to help me cope with being denied canon Johnlock. I got hooked after finishing this one, and the stories started to rush out of me in the months to follow. Not Actually is therefore my first, tentative trying-out-the-characters-story, diving into the scene that holds my favourite piece of proof of Sherlock's love for John.
> 
> My deepest thanks to [shreylock](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shreylock), who convinced me to try writing a Johnlock story - the best advice I've received in a long time, given how I now can't seem to stop writing.  
> And I've gotten myself a beta! A very special thank you to Akhenaten's Mummy for all the generous kindness!

John sees him through the car window. He is standing beside Mycroft in front of a plane, hands behind his back, looking toward the car. John quickly closes his eyes, but it doesn't help, the picture of Sherlock is already burned into his eyes – the dark curls, the impossibly high cheekbones, the scarf and the coat that is so familiar John's stomach aches.

The car pulls over and Mary opens her door. John wants to stay inside the car and hide, but he is a soldier he tells himself, and he forces himself to get out of the car. He has to face Sherlock, and he has to be as distant as he possibly can or else he will fall to pieces. And that is not what soldiers do.

Mary goes straight up to Sherlock and gives him a hug. John keeps his eyes averted, determined not to look too closely at Sherlock again.

“You will look after him for me, won't you?” Sherlock's voice sends daggers through John's body. He holds his head high and pushes the never-ending spiral of thoughts away, he already knows how it ends: _It wasn't supposed to be like this._ Sherlock is about to be replaced in John's life by the lying assassin who is carrying his child. If John was not such a god-damn good man he would leave her and follow Sherlock – where? He doesn't even know where Sherlock is going and he wouldn't care – but he loves his unborn daughter and he is a good man.

“Don't worry”, Mary says. “I'll keep him in trouble.”

“That's my girl.”

A memory comes to John uninvited; Sherlock's intense eyes fixed in his, his face dangerously close, a red wound crossing his gorgeous lower lip as a substitute for the furious kiss John had wanted to put there. His hypnotising voice: _T_ _he thrill of the chase,_ _the blood pumping through your veins, just the two of us against the rest of the world…_

John is a soldier. He needs that, he craves that, just as Sherlock so well knew. But he doesn't want it with Mary.

_Because you chose her._

The self-hatred that fills John gives him enough fuel to push the paralysing regret aside. He will have a lifetime to think about how none of this would have happened if he had just cancelled the wedding once Sherlock came back. But right now he needs to be a soldier. Soldier.

Mary comes back to his side. He forces a half smile and finally meets Sherlock's eyes. The smile he heard in Sherlock's voice has faded, and John's face hurts from the effort not to show the heartbreak. He gives Sherlock a short nod before he turns his eyes to the ground. Sherlock turns to Mycroft.

“Since this is likely to be the last conversation I'll have with John Watson, would you mind if we took a moment?”

John draws a deep, painful breath, he cannot smile, he just cannot, he cannot breathe when Sherlock says his name.

Mary and Mycroft leaves, and John walks up to Sherlock. Sherlock is looking at him in that way again, as if he sees everything that John is, however badly he wants to hide it. As if he intends to never look away. Usually John doesn't want him to ever stop looking, but now he cannot bear it. He tries a smile and another nod, but Sherlock just keeps watching him expectantly and John has to turn away.

“So here we are.” John clears his throat.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

John turns his eyes back to Sherlock. “Sorry?”

“That's the whole of it. If you're looking for baby names.”

John chuckles and looks at his feet, momentarily relieved to laugh together, to see Sherlock's face and hear his words and know that he is the same, that he still… exists. “No we've had a scan, we're pretty sure it's a girl.”

“Oh”, Sherlock says softly. “Okay.” It almost looks as if his eyes have become wet before he breaks the eye contact.

John turns away once more. “Yeah”, he says, looking around as if he's searching the tarmac for words. “Yeah, I… I can't think of a single thing to say.”

“No, neither can I.”

John is impressed by his own soldier facade. He will handle this. He cannot help but feeling the comfort of talking to Sherlock, it feels so much like home. No matter what has happened and no matter what situation they are in, his pain is always, always eased by Sherlock's presence. He even lets his guard down so much that he involuntarily steps closer to Sherlock as he says: “The game is over.”

“The game is never over, John”, Sherlock immediately answers. “But there may be some new players now. That's okay. The east wind takes us all in the end.”

“What's that?”

“It's a story my brother told me when we were kids. The east wind, this terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path. Seeks out the unworthy and plucks them from the earth. That was generally me.”

“Nice.”

“He was a rubbish big brother.”

They smile, even though Sherlock's eyes look a little red in the edges. John would never be able to explain what it is about Sherlock that makes him love even the way Sherlock phrases his words. So often John laughs at what Sherlock says without knowing what's even funny. Maybe it's just the fact that it's all so _Sherlock_ that makes him so warm inside he has to laugh.

This doesn't feel real any more. They're standing here together, laughing and talking as they always do and this is Sherlock Bloody Holmes, the man of miracles. This will not be the last conversation they will ever have, it can't be. Sherlock always comes back, it's his thing, he's untouchable. He will come back. John is suddenly sure, and he clears his throat again, now able to ask the question.

“So what about you then? Where are you actually going now?”

“Oh, some undercover work in eastern Europe”, Sherlock says in a low, breathy voice without meeting John's eyes.

“For how long?”

“Six months, my brother estimates.” Sherlock pauses before he adds: “He's never wrong.”

John keeps looking at Sherlock's face, and Sherlock keeps avoiding his gaze. “And then what?”

Sherlock presses his lips together, finally looking back at John. It's not all in John's head; Sherlock's eyes are wet. He makes a pause before making a little shrug, silently managing: “Who knows.”

John nods and turns his head away. He will come back. Sherlock will come back. That's what he does. It's his thing.

“John, there's something…”, Sherlock pauses and John looks back to see the nakedness of Sherlock's face when he stammers: “I-I should say, I've meant to say always and then never have… Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now.”

John stares at Sherlock's face, suddenly unable to look away. Every fraction of a second that passes is physically hurting him. _Stop it_ , he tells himself. _That's not it. He doesn't feel things that way. He could never feel the way you feel about him._ He is almost angry with Sherlock for making him think like this again, because he has made his peace with what Sherlock has to offer him even if it has never been enough. He is angry with himself for still hoping. _Trust you to fall for a sociopath_ , he bitterly mocks himself.

But he cannot keep those feelings away when Sherlock is dangling the hope in front of his eyes like this. John braces himself as he watches every tiny movement on Sherlock's face, he looks so vulnerable and tiny. How can a sociopath have such a soft yet scared look on his face?

Sherlock lifts his eyes to meet John's one more time, and John is caught slightly off-guard. He has never seen Sherlock so open and honest. Sherlock takes a slow breath, and his deep voice is softer than ever before.

“I love you.”

And John stops breathing. He is physically unable to move, he just stares into Sherlock's eyes and Sherlock doesn't look away. Not even now, not even in all this mortifying humanity does Sherlock look away, he keeps John's gaze as though he wants to make sure every word he says goes directly into John's heart.

“I'm _in_ love with you”, he continues, “I have been since the day I met you, and I strongly suspect I always will be.”

John's breathing comes back in a harsh exhalation, he is panting now and when he tries to talk it only comes out as a whisper. “Christ, Sherlock.” He waits a few more seconds for Sherlock to start laughing, but he doesn't. John's breathing comes even harder and his voice is louder when he repeats: “ _Christ_ , Sherlock”, and when Sherlock hears the desperate anger he finally drops his gaze. John feels tears leave his eyes that he didn't even know were there, and he shifts his weight back and forth between his feet as an outlet for the impossible mixture of feelings swelling in his chest.

“I'm sorry”, Sherlock says with a voice so low John can barely hear him over his own panting, “I should-”

“Shut up”, John interrupts. “ _Shut up, Sherlock._ ” Sherlock immediately goes silent, looking back at John with flinching eyes.

“How-” John begins, but he does not know what to say. “Why-” he tries instead, but has to restart: “Why didn't you tell me before, you… moron!” He is almost shouting the last words.

Sherlock looks anxiously at him, apparently not sure if he is supposed to answer. “Because-” he tries, but John does not let him finish.

“Don't say it, do not say it!” His voice is a whisper again, and he looks down at his feet, and then shots a glance at Mary standing by the other end of the plane. Neither she nor Mycroft is watching them, but they are there. It doesn't matter any more.

When John's eyes go back to Sherlock, the beautiful man is a blur through his tears. Finally John follows the impulse he has fought every day he's spent with the detective, and he grabs the lapels of Sherlock's coat. But this time John doesn't push him to the ground and hurt him. This time he pulls Sherlock towards him, gripping at the coat as though his life depended on it, and presses his lips against Sherlock's.

Even though he has been dreaming about what this would feel like for years, John is floored by the sensation of Sherlock's lips. Sherlock makes a little noise of surprise and John inhales deeply through his nose, the smell of Sherlock fills him and erases every single trace of pain inside him. He squeezes his eyelids together even tighter, commanding the world around them to disappear.

And then he feels Sherlock's hands on him, more confident than he would have expected.One is on his waist, one gently searching his neck to finally settle. John shudders when he feels the palm of Sherlock's hand against his bare skin, he didn't notice when Sherlock took the glove off. The mouth John has been staring at for so long makes a shy movement, hardly noticeable, just enough to let John know Sherlock is there.

John draws his head back for a moment, eyes still closed, to be able to catch one breath before leaning back in. This time Sherlock is waiting for him. He presses his firm lips against John's so tenderly, and the bravery of this breaks John's heart because he is suddenly sure that Sherlock has never done this before. The inexperience tastes so fragile on Sherlock's lips, and still none of John's experiences have even remotely prepared him for this one.Nothing has ever consumed him in such a way, and he allows himself to let go of everything. He lets go of the tarmac, he lets go of the plane, he lets go of Sherlock's brother and his own pregnant wife standing next to it. He knows he will eventually have to let go of Sherlock's lips as well, and he knows it will hurt even more the more he gives in now, but he doesn't care. He doesn't care about anything in the world except for Sherlock kissing him, again and again, and he isn't sure if the salty taste comes from Sherlock's tears or his own.

He has no idea how long it has been when Sherlock draws back, rests his forehead against John's and murmurs: “John.”

John violently shakes his head, refusing to open his eyes. “No.” He steals another desperate kiss, but Sherlock ends this one too.

“John”, he repeats, his voice so broken that new tears squeeze out through John's eyelids.

“It's not enough”, John whispers, still shaking his head, “it's not enough time.”

“I know.” John can barely hear Sherlock's voice but he feels it vibrate in his chest. “But it never will be.”

John feels the hand leave his neck, and he instinctively grabs harder at the thick fabric in his hands. “Sherlock”, he whispers, and when Sherlock's forehead leaves his, he finally opens his eyes. “Sherlock”, he repeats when he sees the open wound that is Sherlock's face. How could he ever believe Sherlock was actually a sociopath? He has never seen someone look so human.

He has never seen someone look so broken.

“Goodbye, John Watson.” Sherlock's voice cracks.

“No”, John says, sounding just like he did on the worst day of his life, the day he lost him the first time, “Sherlock-”

Sherlock puts his hands on John's and gently makes them let go of his lapels. “Sherlock”, John continues, unable to stop saying it as Sherlock turns away. John doesn't know he has tried to reach for Sherlock until he feels a pair of hands taking hold of his shoulders to keep him back.

Sherlock walks towards the stairs of the plane and it is like seeing him fall from Bart's one more time. “Sherlock”, John desperately repeats, “Sherlock”, not even aware he is saying it any more. Sherlock doesn't turn, and even though every inch he moves further away hurts to watch, John cannot take his eyes off him, just as he could not as Sherlock fell to his death on the pavement.

And so the coat vanishes into the plane. Time passes in a strange manner now, John has no idea what he has done before the engines roar and the plane starts moving, but he is on his knees now and his mouth somehow feels sore, and he notices he is still repeating the only name that matters in this world. He finally closes his mouth as he watches the plane pick up speed and leave the ground.

John drops his head and supports his hands on the pavement. He hears sounds coming out of his chest as if though he was standing next to himself, he doesn't recognise these sounds, he doesn't know what they are supposed to be. He sees a flash of bright red in the corner of his eye, and he slowly lifts his head to look at Mary hesitantly approaching him. She immediately stops when she sees his face.

“Don't you dare”, he fiercely whispers. “This is on you. This is all on you.” His whole body is shaking.

Mary says nothing. Just like she didn't bother explaining herself when it turned out everything she'd told him was a lie. Just like she never apologised for shooting and almost killing the love of his life, when she knew what the loss had done to him the first time. Just like she never thanked Sherlock for sacrificing himself to ensure her safety, even though she had stolen the man he loved. John can see in her face now that she knew all along, she knew the man she married belonged to someone else.

John lowers his head again, unable to look at her face any more. Nothing moves. Everything is silent. Everything except the tiny sounds escaping John's throat now and then, he sounds like a lost child, he doesn't care.

Suddenly a sharp telephone signal cuts through the silence. He hears a movement behind him, and then Mycroft's voice. “Holmes.”

A long pause, and then: “But that's not possible. That is simply not possible.”

 

* * *

 

The wheels meet the ground, Sherlock feels the impact through his body. He is staring out of the window of the plane. Scanning the tarmac, he needs to see John. Not rational, this staring bit, he knows he does not have to wait long for John to be standing in front of him again. He cannot help himself though, he has tried to stop before and has come to the conclusion that it will not work.

And there is a tightness in his stomach. Not a pleasant one. He makes a short sound, almost like a laugh. Sherlock Holmes is afraid.

The worst day of his life keeps playing and replaying itself in his head as the plane rushes over the tarmac: The grey air. The sun barely reaching through the clouds. The pavement so far beneath him. Fear of his friends dying, fast flaming hope that he might be able to save them and also himself, despair when the gun goes off.

Bang. Moriarty flying backwards. Blood spreading. Sherlock turning away.

In his coat pocket at that very moment was a squash ball; Sherlock was going to use it to momentarily cut off his own pulse if John were to check it. Yet he did not check Moriarty's. It is all a blur, he can hardly remember, all those feelings, feelings everywhere when he realised he would have to fall. Another annoying proof of Moriarty being way ahead of him the whole time. The more Sherlock thinks about it, the more certain he is. He did not check. And Moriarty knew he would not check.

_But that wasn't the end of Sir Boast-A-Lot's problem. No, that wasn't the final problem._

What was the final problem?

The plane is slowing down. Sherlock's eyes are still searching. The worst day of his life – such a dramatic expression. Drama queen. John once called him that. Sherlock was quite offended, as he can recall. But still. John had been the fierce commander, ordering him to solve the bloody game that was apparently on. Sherlock liked that.

Concerning dramatic expressions; to be fair, John was the one who called his wedding day the most important one. Therefore Sherlock has decided not to pick that one for his own worst.

The plane comes to a halt. Sherlock's stomach makes an attempt to turn itself inside out when he sees John's back through the window. He is holding his head high and his shoulders all soldiery. Arguing. Winning the argument, Sherlock deduces from Mycroft's face. Mary is not there.

And then John turns, and it takes Sherlock two seconds to see from his face, hands and knees how he has spent the nine and a half minutes they have been apart. John. Sherlock's heart feels like it is suddenly too big to fit inside his chest. Stupid, irrational comparison. Real, however.

John walks towards the plane. Alone. Emotions are not clear cut; such a hopeless mess of renewed fear mixed with excitement.

John slightly bows his head as he enters the plane, even though he really does not have to given his height. He stops in the aisle, silently meeting Sherlock's gaze. Too shy to come forward? No, that's not it. He does not look uncomfortable. His face is wide open – has he ever looked at Sherlock this way before? Maybe. Maybe it was just too dangerous to see. Chemical defects.

Sherlock does not know if he is imagining things – that would not be very much like him, but then again, nothing of this is – butas he looks at John's mouth he thinks he can actually see the kisses he put there only minutes ago. Oh, and now he is thinking about the kissing again. Stupid, how is he supposed to function if he can only think about the kissing. Strangest thing is, he can not really bring himself to mind it.

Sherlock feels his mouth twitch. Cannot help it. He can never help it when he meets John's eyes. “Miss me?” he says.

John makes a short, quiet laugh. Sherlock's favourite laugh. No, not favourite, oh screw that, he cannot choose that now. “Idiot”, John mumbles.

Sherlock looks at the door, and then back at John. “Mary?”

John just shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Oh.”

Their eye contact is so electric it almost makes sparks by now – also irrational, also real – and John clears his throat, turning away. “Moriarty”, he says, trying to sound casual. “Moriarty's alive, then?”

“Yes he is”, Sherlock answers.

“So what do we do?” John raises his eyebrows, looking back to Sherlock.

Sherlock places his hands on the armrests and pulls himself up from the chair. “Moriarty can wait”, he says boldly. Because Sherlock certainly cannot.

His hands reach out before he is even close enough to touch John, they seem to work on their own accord and not really care about his mind by now. Surprisingly he does not mind that either. Sherlock gently grabs John by the shoulders and draws him in. John's arms immediately close behind Sherlock's back and oh god. John buries his face against the bottom of Sherlock's throat, god. John's breath is warm, John's skin is soft, Sherlock feels his own breath pick up speed so he cannot even deduce if John's does as well. Sherlock is not wearing his coat this time, this time John _must_ feel Sherlock's heart violently racing. He slowly lowers his head to rest his chin against John's hair. Nice scent, John scent, and shampoo. He recognizes it from the bottles in the bathroom of 221B. Smells more here. John.

Sherlock closes his eyes and feels the tears in the corners of them. He notices his thumbs have decided to make small patterns on John's neck and back. John's whole body pressed against his, warm, compact, solid. John's arms firm around him. Sherlock tries to believe it is real but fails.

Something wet on his collar bone. John's shoulders makes a slight shake and he sniffs his nose.

“John”, Sherlock murmurs.

“I can't believe I almost didn't get to say it.” Tears in John's voice.

“What?”

John's voice is muffled against Sherlock's skin. “I love you, Sherlock.”

Before Sherlock can react, John raises his head and presses his lips against Sherlock's. Since they parted Sherlock has been unable to not think about the kisses, still he had managed to forget the pure serenity of it. Who knew kissing would be such a high. People had not been exaggerating, on the contrary they had been downplaying it quite a lot, he would say. Stupid to never try that before. From now on, he is never going to waste his time on anything other than kissing John.

Head feels dizzy. Legs weakened. Warm face, too warm. Breathing faster. Predictable, but the very opposite of boring. Chemical reactions, cannot control it. Does not want to.

John draws his head back and waits until Sherlock opens his eyes again. Red cheeks. Bright eyes. Happiness? No, too simple, too light.

“I love you”, John repeats.

This must be it. This one is love. Sherlock smiles like a child, cannot help it. “Jo-” he starts, but cuts himself off. His smile fades.

“Sherlock?” John's voice still soft. Sherlock narrows his eyebrows, shakes his head slightly, closes his eyes. “Sherlock, what's wrong?”

Sherlock takes his hands off John and puts them to his temples. He feels his face make a tight grimace. Brain is spinning, incredibly fast, god he is glad he did not take those drugs after all. When he opens his eyes again he lets out a short sigh, as if of relief. But he is not relieved, not in the slightest – the only thing he is, is sure.

“The final problem”, Sherlock all but whispers. “That's the final problem.”

“Sherlock, what is it?” John says, once again making Sherlock aware of his presence.

“John, where's Mary?”

John looks slightly worried, and he quickly drops his eyes before replying: “Dunno. I told her to leave.”

“I need to speak to Mycroft.” Sherlock pushes past John in the aisle, grabs his coat on his way to the door and swings it in a wide circle as he puts it on while running down the stairs.

Mycroft is standing on the pavement, looking all serious and important. “Brother dear”, he says with a frosty smile. “I do hope you-”

“I think you should probably get someone to keep an eye on Mary”, Sherlock interrupts.

Mycroft raises his eyebrows. “Mary?”

“Yes of course Mary”, Sherlock says, impatient. “Probably about right now, it'd be such a boring and exhausting day's work to track her down once she's decided to disappear.”

John reaches the pavement behind him. “Sherlock, do you mind explaining to us?”

Sherlock turns around. “Moriarty is alive”, he says, “and he's coming back for another attempt to burn the heart out of me. Possibly he's quite disappointed that he failed at the last minute on the first try.” He is speaking fast now, turning his gaze between John and Mycroft, trying to use his own eyes to make them see. They do not seem to. “Don't you see? The final problem, what is it?”

“We don't know, Sherlock”, Mycroft says with his most annoying big brother voice, “you're not making any sense right now.”

Sherlock pretends not to hear him. “To burn me. That's what he calls the final problem. So he made me fake my own death to stay away from John for a period of time, just enough time for Mary to-” He cuts himself off. John would disapprove of his insensibility and bad timing if he showed his excitement over having solved a puzzle. He has to be gentle now. He owes it to John to be gentle.

John looks expectantly at him, and Sherlock gravely meets his eyes. “I'm so sorry, John.”

This alarms John, and rightly so, because Sherlock almost never says he is sorry. “What, Sherlock, what is it?”

“You heard Moriarty's threat. To burn the heart out of me.” Sherlock stands still now, intently watching John, speaking slowly. “I've been thinking he meant killing you, and giving me the choice to kill myself to prevent that from happening… but it was more than that. John. He knew I would try to fake my own death, and he went up on that roof prepared to fake his own. He never intended for any of us to die. God, I've been such an idiot. The game was much longer than that.”

“Okay”, John says, “so how did he fake his own death? And what does it have to do with Mary?”

“He would have needed a confidante, wouldn't he? Someone to make a gunshot instead of him, someone to puncture the blood bag he had hidden in his collar. Someone capable of shooting with surgical precision.”

Now John sees where he is going. He is going to protest, saying it could be anyone, so Sherlock quickly continues before John can speak:

“The real problem wasn't to get me to kill myself. It was to get me to stay away from you. Moriarty knew I'd eventually come back, and that was his intention; he wanted me to come back to find you with someone else. He made sure my name was cleared the very same day you were going to propose to Mary.”

“That doesn't mean-” John tries, but Sherlock interrupts:

“It did go awfully fast, didn't it?”

John opens his mouth but closes it again. Sherlock tries to deduce how long he should wait to say the words out loud. He does not know how to spare people's feelings, normally he does not care. Feelings are so impractical, always in the way of logical reasoning. But this is John. And John will be broken by this.

“If I'm right, John”, Sherlock begins, “and quite frankly I most usually am… Mary's been working for Moriarty.”

The words are out. John's head does the untouchable soldier thing. Sherlock turns to Mycroft.

“Now would you please go and deal with this?”

Mycroft gives a small nod and walks away while lifting his phone from his pocket. Sherlock unwillingly turns back to John who is standing very still.

“How can you be sure”, John says, and it barely sounds like a question.

“John, please know this.” Sherlock takes a few steps closer to him, lowering his voice. He can see now the effect this has on John, the way his breathing barely noticeably changes. “What I said before, I meant it”, Sherlock says intensely. “I love you. I. Love. You. I've always considered love a dangerous disadvantage, and I was right. With you, I don't care, but it's still the truth. As long as I'm alone, no one can burn me. But I have in fact become very easy to burn. People have threatened to kill you to make me suffer, and I'm the first to admit that would destroy my whole being. There is, however, another way to burn me, quite effectively. In fact, I burned in front of hundreds of people, wearing a pretty outfit, celebrating the most important day of your life as you put it. Laying out my complete and utter devotion to you for everyone to see, and then toasting the man I love marrying someone else.”

John has tears in his eyes. He is silent for a few moments before he can speak. “You-” he starts. “You…”, and his voice becomes a whisper when he finishes: “… love me.”

“Yes I do”, Sherlock says softly. “And you love me, and Moriarty knew that, and that's the final problem. So Moriarty hired Mary to burn the heart out of me. He hired her…”

“… to marry me”, John fills in. He bends over, lifting his hands to his face, panting.

Sherlock swiftly closes his eyes and opens them again. “I'm so sorry, John.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock lies on top of the covers, arms and legs in the positions they happened to take when he collapsed onto the bed. He looks so utterly tired, as if he wouldn't even be able to lift a finger. John rarely sees him this exhausted, maybe because Sherlock is not used to days filled with so many strong emotions, or maybe because he just never lets John see it. Maybe Sherlock has always been such an emotional wreck, and it is only John who has been stupid enough to believe the high functioning sociopath nonsense. Probably John has been a complete idiot; Mrs Hudson has apparently seen through this exterior long ago. He should have, too.

John stands in the door opening for a moment, glad he gets to see this. He gets it now. Like everyone, Sherlock Holmes gets scared; he was scared when Moriarty destroyed him before he fell, and he is scared of what Moriarty might do now. Well, this time they will face him together.

John puts his phone carefully on Sherlock's nightstand, resisting the urge to check once again that the sound is on. He hesitates for a moment, looking at Sherlock's face – there is no way he has fallen asleep already. John puts his knee on the bed, and when Sherlock does not react he lies down near the edge.

Apparently he was wrong about Sherlock being unable to move; a slender hand comes creeping over the covers, searching for him. John catches it, pulling Sherlock's hand to his nose to smell it and give it a small kiss.

Sherlock gives a short mumble, and John smiles faintly when he hears his own name in it.

After another moment, Sherlock opens his eyes. His voice is deep from relaxation when he speaks. “No news then?”

“None.”

Sherlock watches his face closely. “It'll be alright”, he says.

“You don't know that”, John says softly.

“No I don't”, Sherlock agrees. “That's just what people say.”

John sighs and turns on his back, looking up at Sherlock's ceiling. It feels intimate somehow, to see what Sherlock sees every time he goes to sleep. “This would be so much easier if it wasn't for the baby”, he says. “So much easier.”

“I know”, Sherlock says and makes a slight movement with his fingers, still trapped inside John's hand. A few seconds pass. “What time is it?”

“Almost eleven.”

“You should get some sleep. Preferably here.”

John chuckles, still looking at the ceiling. “That's a bold proposition, Mr Holmes.”

“Just, you look like you wouldn't make it up the stairs.”

“Shut up”, John says, rolling over and crawling into the warmth of Sherlock's arms. Sherlock folds around him with a pleased sigh.

John places his head a few inches apart from Sherlock's. Wow, those eyes are so beautiful. He allows himself to let his eyes wander over Sherlock's face, and when John lifts his hand to rest on his smooth cheek, Sherlock closes his eyes. John lies there a moment, breathing in the scent of Sherlock's exhalations, getting light-headed from it.

“Sherlock”, he eventually whispers. “I'm sorry.”

“What for?” Sherlock asks, eyes still closed.

“For saying that. That my marriage was the most important day of my life. I didn't realize that would hurt you. I didn't know.”

Sherlock opens his eyes, silently looking back at him.

“And I'm sorry I got married”, John continues.

“Don't-” Sherlock starts.

“No, let me say this. I didn't know you loved me back, but I'm still sorry. You know I told her a lie when I was proposing, I told her she was the best thing that could have happened to me… but it wasn't, the best thing that could happen was you coming back, and then there you were, and I… God, I just wish I had done what I was dying to do, right at that moment. I should have just kissed you.”

John has so much more to say, but all of a sudden he hasn't enough air to say it. Sherlock stays silent. John is still holding his hand to Sherlock's cheek, and Sherlock places a hand at John's wrist. He leans forward to give John the softest kiss he has ever received, so soft John can feel every tiny movement of the muscles in Sherlock's lips.

“I am so sorry I left you”, Sherlock says as he draws back. John opens his eyes to see the earnest look in Sherlock's. “I will never leave you again.”

He kisses John once more. They have so much more to say, but at this moment it dawns on John that they don't need to say it right away. Right now he can allow himself to only care for Sherlock's lips, the warm comfort of his body and the firm certainty that they love each other. Everything that needs to be said, eventually will be. There will be enough time.


End file.
